I Didn't Ask to Get Made
by Peace Like a River
Summary: 'Scientific terms are strange things. How cold and detached they are, words like "dissect" and "terminate". How crisp and clean-sounding, to cover up the horrible realities.' My take on Rocket's origin story. Movie-based.
1. Words

**I Didn't Ask to Get Made**

_**Disclaimer:**_

**I own absolutely nothing. All characters referenced herein—with the possible exception of the 'White Coats', as Rocket calls them in my story—are the sole property of Marvel.**

**So! After watching Guardians of the Galaxy, I just **_**had**_** to write a piece exploring Rocket's origin story. To any GotG comic fans that may have stumbled across this, I apologize profusely: I have not yet read the comics, I know next to nothing about Rocket's origin story other than what the film implies, and as a result, I will probably end up butchering the canon with a chainsaw. I suppose I **_**could**_** have read the comics first, and then satisfied my muse afterward. (But then where would be the fun in that?)**

* * *

_"I didn't ask to get made. I didn't ask to be torn apart and put back together over and over and turned into some little monster."_

* * *

When he thinks about his life, it's in terms of the Before and After. Before the cognitive modifications, he led a simple, relatively pleasant existence, albeit a caged one in a laboratory. His advanced cerebral capacities—made possible through genetic enhancement—lay dormant for the most part. Even so, occasional flashes of a level-five intelligence piqued the White Coats' interest in him, prompting them to put him through cognitive modifications. And After those modifications—

Well, whole new realms of understanding were unlocked to him. His simple, static existence erupted into a world of color, emotion, language, and pain. His Pandora's Box had been opened, his Eden forcibly vacated, his Thel-Caria quadrant conquered. Nothing could ever be the same again.

Language was particularly fascinating, once he was able to grasp the point of it. Words were such strange things. How cold and detached they could be, words like "_dissect_" and "_terminate_." How crisp and clean-sounding, to cover up the horrible realities—

* * *

_"Commencing dissection of subjects 827–832. Subjects conscious, so that their brain activity can be observed during the dissection."_

The only family he has ever known, torn apart like so much meat. Through the cage glass, he watches, and trembles. Somehow, they are awake—they cling to consciousness despite the carnage.

* * *

_"Subjects 827–832 terminated."_

The only family he has ever known, killed. Their eyes unseeing. Their life blood drained out.

* * *

_"Dissection of subject 832, as with previous dissections, supports evidence of a level-three intelligence at best. All tests indicate failure of cognitive and cybernetic modifications of subjects 827–832. Post-surgical tests performed on subject 826, however, demonstrate a level-seven intelligence, the highest mark that this project has produced to-date. Cochlear and retinal feed to be implanted."_

He does not remember being changed by the White Coats. He only remembers the pain of waking up After, to find strange _things_ in his chest and back—hard, cold things that don't belong there, that smell completely wrong. He whines and tries to bite out the pieces that he can reach with his mouth, and scratch out the ones that he can't, but nothing seems to work. What's worse, digging at the pieces hurts him, as if they were a part of him after all, flesh and bone.

He will later learn that they extend far below his skin, into what the White Coats call his "neural system".

* * *

_"Cochlear and retinal implants activated in subject 826. Start with rate of audio-visual feed at sixty percent."_

A sudden inpouring of information, fed to him nonstop with too-bright images and too-loud sounds that, at the time, he can't even recognize as words. The sounds and images stay with him, no matter how much he whines and scrapes at his ears, no matter how tightly he shuts his eyes. The feed is with him as he sleeps. It's meant to teach him, to accelerate his learning, to make him More, but it's all too-much, too-much.

* * *

_"Increase rate of audio-visual feed to eighty percent."_

After a few months of progress, just as he is beginning to be able to pick out the words, to make some sense of the madness, they increase the speed. Everything flies by him, assaults him anew. And there is no rhyme or reason to the content—the speed at which the feed changes subjects is dizzying—vocabulary here, mathematics there, shapes that he now recognizes as "_writing_". He could learn this, he could, he is capable, but the relentlessness of the feed is exhausting. It's a wonder that he manages to absorb as much of it as he does.

It's a miracle that he stays sane.

* * *

_"As foreseen, uneven bone growth is an unfortunate side effect of the cybernetic implants. The solution, however, is straightforward. The subject is displaying signs of agitation, but the required dosage of anesthetic has already been administered. Procedure to continue."_

He is writhing and crying out in agony, but since the necessary parts of him are muzzled or otherwise restrained, the White Coats can continue their work without interference. They are not willing to waste more than the legally required amount of pain-dulling drug on him, not for a simple breaking and resetting of a foreleg.

* * *

_"Tests indicate that subject 826 has exceeded all known markers for cognitive progress in genetically modified species. Increase rate of audio-visual feed to one hundred percent."_

_Mathematics… physics… ancient literature… memories of lost worlds… heat… colors flashing by… words, words, words…_ Complete sensory overload: this is his breaking point. That night, fighting every pain avoidance instinct left in him, he manages to scratch out the cochlear implant. The instant relief provided by its absence makes him weep.

Removing the retinal implant—that's much worse.

* * *

_"Subject 826 performed self-removal of cochlear and retinal implants during the night. Conditioning to be applied, to discourage future tampering with cybernetic and neural modifications." _

The White Coats find him in the morning with an empty eye socket, bloody claws, and the eyeball beside him almost unrecognizably mutilated from repeated attempts at removal. The air is thick with the smell of vomit.

They wake him roughly from his sleep—the only real sleep he has had in months, thanks to the feed—and bring him to a place that they call a conditioning chamber. The only thing he knows about the chamber for sure is that it is not the kind of place he wants to be—he has never been taken there himself, but has a vague memory from Before: a memory of less capable subjects being led away, their cries and whines echoing from that very room. Mentally and physically exhausted, he barely puts up any resistance as they strap him to a strange platform—"_chair_," his brain blurrily supplies. He startles when they press the mangled remains of his eyeball into his paw. Gloved hands point to the eye, then towards the empty socket. "No!" one of the White Coats says, punctuating each word with a jab of her finger. "No!" He blinks his remaining eye, aware that the White Coats are severely displeased with what's he done, but unsure of how best to placate them—

He isn't even given the chance to try. Without warning, a feeling like fire courses up and down his entire body. He screams, a wild, high-pitched animal scream. This is a pain even worse than his eye, if that were possible. "_Electricity_," his brain fills in. "Death if it doesn't stop," it adds a moment later. _Maybe that would be better anyway_— He is aware of his heels drumming helplessly against the base of the chair, of his ruined eyeball squeezed to a pulp in his twitching fist, and through it all, the pain snakes over him, over and over again. Finally, when he thinks he can take no more, it stops. The electrical buzz cuts out, and in its absence, he realizes that he is whimpering: a droning, involuntary whine that he hates himself for. But at least the pain is done, it's over, they will lead him back to his cage and then—

* * *

_"Repeat conditioning procedure."_

No. No wait, he knows better now, that won't be necessary, please just— "No!" comes the White Coat's accusing finger indicating his eye, then the place where it had been— "No!"

And then the pain.

All in all they shock him three times.

* * *

_"Eye to be grown from clonal tissue, and audio-visual feed to resume at full capacity pending orbital surgery."_

They give him a new eye, and patch up his ear. The feed returns, but at least the re-implantation surgeries have bought him some time—a month, maybe two months have passed since the conditioning chamber. He is More now. He can handle the feed. _He has to…_

* * *

_"Subject 826 awakened during surgical procedure today. First known verbalization was observed and recorded, indicating success of vocal surgeries."_

His situation gets a little better in a few months, once the vocal surgeries, working in tandem with his preexisting genetic modifications and cerebral implants, finally enable him to voice what he had been wordlessly screaming all along:

"N… No! Pl…Pluh… Please… Please!"

His first spoken words. Screamed out during an unplanned awakening in the middle of yet another surgery, this time an anatomical reconstruction of his shoulder joints: his species, whatever it is, clearly wasn't designed to pivot their limbs the way the White Coats want him to. So he wakes to find his shoulder red and open, pins and surgical tools angrily protruding from the newly inserted bone and muscle tissue. He panics, and finds his voice, and there is no longer any trace of animal in it. Even to the White Coats, it is inescapably apparent that he has become More.

_I've been here all along_, he tries to say, as the White Coats surround him, ecstatic, congratulating one another. "I've been here all along, you bastards, through every needle, operation, and fricking implant you've thrown at me, and it has to stop—I can't take any more." That's what he wants to say, but his mouth is slow to form the words, and his tongue feels dry and cumbersome. Thankfully, at least they give him more of the anesthetic. His mind slows in response to the drug, and so he lets it drift into the feed, away from the White Coats hovering over his broken body, towards images of planets and systems, other worlds bright with possibilities.

* * *

_"List of remaining modifications to subject 826: Hip reconstruction to increase ease of bipedal movement. Oral surgery to improve enunciation: new tongue muscle to be grown from clonal tissue. Phalangeal and metacarpal enhancements to increase dexterity and range of motion, particularly of the thumb. Castration is a possibility, to reduce aggressive behavior and promote subject compliance, but of course the long-term benefits of eventually mating the subject in order to study his progeny and produce additional data would likely outweigh the short-term behavioral advantages of neutering…"_

Sometimes the feed goes relatively dark, maybe with images of space or the deep sea, and he can look past it to see his reflection in the cage glass. And he sees how much he has changed. He has been taken apart and put back together so many times, he's not even sure that anything original remains of him. If he were ever to be released into "_the wild_"—a term that he learned from the feed, to encompass all natural habitats of animals, collectively—would he even be able to fend for himself? Because he can't run on all fours anymore, not really. His current form allows for short bursts of speed on all fours, if necessary, but upright movement ultimately feels more natural, albeit slower. He is no longer designed to run from predators, or to run down prey.

He is not even designed to bite anymore—something that any self-respecting animal should be able to do. He wakes up one day to discover bandages swathing his face, and restraints keeping him prone on a flat surface—panic sets in for a split-second before he remembers that this is standard procedure after an operation, to ensure that the raw tissues will heal. So he swallows the panic, and waits. A week later, when the bandages are removed and he is allowed to sit up under supervision, he finds that his jaw and facial muscles feel vastly different. His capacities for speech have been improved, and his face forms strange new contortions to reflect his thought—"_expressions_," his brain supplies—but his ability to _bite_, to cut through bone with sheer strength, has been lost. He points this out to the White Coats, hoping that maybe they will fix this new weakness. They are pleased to hear him speak again, even if in broken sentences, but in the end, they dismiss his concerns. Why should they care about his bite—_his one last method of defense_—so long as he can chew the food they bring him, speak the words they tell him, and emote in a way they can relate to?

Part of him understands that the White Coats are not crippling him intentionally. They are scientists, after all, pursuing what they see as advancements in their field. They are essentially "_businessmen_" at heart—another term from the feed—not "_sadists_." But they are crippling him nonetheless.

So when the feed switches from psychology, or economics, or calculus, or mechanics, to ecology, displaying images of _the wild_—green open spaces and a simple existence—he allows himself to dream, but he knows that it can never be. It is harmless enough to dream about the 'maybe's' of life outside of the laboratory, life apart from the White Coats: maybe he could find a territory of his own, somewhere safe and quiet. Maybe, against all odds, even without feet that can run fast or a bite that can cut bone, he could use his wits to protect himself, cobble together crude weapons and traps. Maybe he could join others of his own kind, whatever his kind might be. Maybe he could even find a female, rear young—

But no, he doesn't _have_ a kind to join anymore. He is altogether alone in the universe, and if there were others of his species, would they even accept him in this strange form? Or would they be repulsed by his More-ness?

And would he in turn be repulsed by their animal-ness? Their vapid eyes, seeing but not seeing, bodies not acting but simply reacting, minds ruled by instinct and not intellect? Compared to him, they would be— "pathetic," his brain supplies. No, _natural_, he argues back, but already the dream has slipped away.

Later on, when his cognitive progress allows him to grasp the basic principles of gene splicing, epigenetics, and embryonic modification, he learns from the feed that he has always been an entirely new species, all his own. Even before the cognitive and cybernetic modifications, his genes had been manipulated. Which means that he has never been just an animal, not really. He has always been More.

* * *

_"As of today, the standard operating procedure concerning subject 826 will be revised to include daily intervention sessions. During these two-hour sessions, staff members will meet with the subject to encourage verbal communication, gage comprehension, monitor psychological health, and perform additional tests to track cognitive progress."_

Now that he can speak, the White Coats turn off the cochlear and retinal feed for a few hours every day so that one of them can visit him. During the visits, they try to get him to speak again. At first, he is reluctant to do so—he owes them nothing.

"Say 'hello'," the White Coat prompts him.

A sullen silence is the only response.

She prompts him again.

Still nothing.

"I know you're capable of understanding me," she frowns, pen drumming impatiently against her clipboard. "All tests currently indicate a level-eight intelligence, equivalent to that of our own species. Additionally, you are capable of speech: your documented vocabulary includes _yes_, _no_, _please_, _stop_, _bite not strong_, and—" she clears her throat, has the decency to look mildly embarrassed—"_you bastards_," she finishes, face reddening slightly.

He smirks. Yeah, that had been a good day. The White Coats had been so shocked, had started to babble so excitedly about, "_surpassing markers for verbal development_," that they hadn't even punished him for his outburst.

But his expression—courtesy of the recent facial and neural reconstructions—doesn't escape the White Coat's notice. "Therefore," she continues, icily, "since you are capable of both comprehension and speech, your silence will be taken as a deliberate act of disobedience." She sits back, letting that sink in. "The conditioning chamber is always open."

"No," he rasps out, knowing that the White Coat has won, and judging from her posture, she knows it, too. His voice is a little gravelly from disuse. "No," he repeats himself, stronger this time. _That won't be necessary._

"Good," she smiles artificially. "Then let's try this again. Say, 'hello'."

_Okay, he could do this._ He thinks about the word. "_Hello (exclamation): used as a greeting, or to initiate a conversation"_—a memory from the feed. He turns the word over in his mind, picturing how he will move his new throat and new tongue to shape it, how he will expel air just so. The first syllable is easy enough, and then the '–llo' part, he thinks he can manage by—

But he has waited too long, and so the White Coat is angry again, mistaking his thoughtfulness for resistance. She reaches towards a button on her comm-unit, to call in other White Coats to carry him away— _No, no, wait—_

"Hello," he breathes out in a rush, paw extended towards her in a placating gesture, his voice trembling. He can't hide the fear in it. "Hello."

She pauses. Lets the comm-unit slide back into her pocket, unused. The artificial smile is back.

* * *

_"Excellent," she says._

We own you, he hears.

* * *

_"Hello," he repeats himself, head down, defeated._

I know you do.

* * *

_"Biological specimens from subjects __827–832 have been _retained in deep freeze unit 4…"

The only family he has ever known. Summarily dismissed as nothing more than a string of numbers and a collection of tissues, stored on ice.

In hindsight, the other subjects had never been sentient, only animal. Nothing More. His own modifications had been deemed a resounding success; those performed on the other subjects had not. Two of them had died on the operating table, the lucky bastards. The others had been ripped apart for additional study.

He recognizes, in time, that he is _mourning_ for the other subjects. Before, he had known anger, and he had known fear, and that was more or less the extent of his emotional repertoire. _Grief_, _sorrow_—those psychological constructs are wholly new to him, courtesy of the cognitive modifications. So After, when these new constructs—these _feelings_—sweep over him, it is akin to sensory overload. He doesn't know how to process or even categorize what is happening to him: he only knows that the sight of the now-empty cages around him makes his throat tighten, his eyes burn, and his heart ache with a strange pain. A pain that isn't quite physical, but in a way is so much worse.

It's not like they had shared a particularly strong bond, he and the other subjects. They hadn't been his littermates. Hell, they hadn't even been his species—he thinks most of them must have been simian at one point, selected for the project for their intelligence and opposable thumbs—but they were all the family he had ever had. His memories of them consist chiefly of wet snuffling noses, dark inquisitive eyes, and warm familiar-smelling fur. His interactions with them had been purely instinctual, devoid of emotion, limited to simplistic circadian patterns of action and reaction. None of them, not even himself at the time, had been capable of the psychological constructs he would later understand to be _sympathy_, or _kindness_, or _love_. No, in hindsight, whatever bond he had shared with the other subjects, he had not loved them. Their connection had been forged out of necessity, proximity, and a mutual fear of what was being done to them. Perhaps it was even based on a misplaced evolutionary drive to protect the shared genetic material—Xandarian material—that the White Coats had spliced into them. But ultimately, he had not loved the other subjects. They had never even been named. Just as he is unnamed.

And still he mourns them, even before he truly understands what mourning is. He mourns them fiercely for what they had been, and for what they could have been. To be sure, he is—_pleased?_ no, not pleased, but "_grateful_"—that their existences were relatively painless. That they didn't have to suffer as long as he had. But, selfishly, he wishes that at least one of them—just one—had made it. If just one of them had survived, become More, and made the journey alongside him, then maybe he wouldn't be so lost.

Because he is More than an animal. He has always been. And yet, he is Less than a White Coat, because they own him.

So he's not sure what he is anymore. He has been taken apart and put back together so many times that maybe nothing original remains of him. All he knows is that he is—

* * *

_"An unparalleled scientific achievement, unique in the fields of genetic and cybernetic modification..."_

Alone.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

**For now, this is a standalone, but if my muse allows, I would love to expand it! I know that this piece is pretty heavy on the 'hurt', and not so much on the 'comfort', and I do want to rectify that soon. When that happens, look for the other Guardians to make an appearance, beginning with Groot.**

**For those who are interested, I used the following quotes from the film to cobble together what I hope is a plausible backstory:**

**Rhomann Dey:** Rocket—Wanted on over fifty charges of vehicular theft and escape from custody.

* * *

**Rocket:** Ain't no thing like me, 'cept me!

_In other words, he doesn't realize what his species is, or the fact that there are probably others like him._

* * *

**Rocket:** He thinks I'm some stupid thing! He does! [_points to Drax_] Well, I didn't ask to get made! I didn't ask to be torn apart and put back together over and over and turned into some little monster!


	2. Glass

**I Didn't Ask to Get Made**

**Chapter 2: Glass**

* * *

_"Ah, what the hell, I don't got that long a lifespan anyway."_

* * *

"How old am I?" he asks one day.

"Ah, you would be a little over a year now," the White Coat answers, peering at him through thick glasses. He is an elderly man, heavy-set, with a gentle demeanor. When he speaks, his voice is thick with age.

"When we extracted you from the embryonic chamber, it was Mendrix-Ondar-28, by the Prime-standard calendar," the White Coat recalls. "I remember it well."

The subject recites the digits and words to himself, committing them to memory. The words are unfamiliar to him, and he makes a mental note to request a data-segment on calendar systems and their history, for when the feed resumes. But for now, he is curious to learn more about his own history.

"Could we go see it?" he asks. "The embryonic chamber? I don't remember it."

"No reason you would," says the White Coat amiably. "You were too young." But he is willing enough, and so together they make the short trek down the white, uniform hallways of the laboratory, towards what the White Coat points out as the development wing of the facility. The subject, even with restraints, moves at a considerably faster pace than the old scientist, so he scampers ahead, waits, and circles back to the lightly wheezing man, only to scamper ahead again, and so forth until they finally reach a gray door marked 'Delivery Room'.

They step inside, and the subject blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. The White Coat, with a huff of effort, kneels beside him to unlock his restraints—heavy, metal clamps that encase his front paws entirely, forcing them together. The restraints are standard procedure during transfer from one room of the facility to another, although the subject has never really understood why: even if he were set loose in the halls, unrestrained and unsupervised, all the doors are bio-coded—only authorized staff are free to come and go. As if reading his mind, the White Coat throws him a sympathetic glance. "Fool things, these," he indicates the restraints with an apologetic smile, and the subject decides that, for a White Coat, this one isn't so bad.

The subject rubs the feeling back into his wrists as he takes in the sight of the room. It's impressively spacious, filled with four long rows of dusty glass cases that he realizes must be the embryonic chambers. Compared to the other rooms he's seen, there's very little equipment: he suspects that most of it has long since been shipped out to other rooms and wings of the facility. All that's left is a computer console at the center of the room, a few empty medical carts scattered at random along the rows of chambers, and dark, gaping cabinets that line the wall opposite the door.

The pair begins to pace the length of the room. As they pass by each chamber, the subject takes note of its label: _815, 816, 817..._

"Don't mind the dust," the White Coat says, running his finger along one of the glass surfaces. "This wing hasn't seen much use lately. Not much call for embryonic chambers in this facility, ever since you ushered us into Phase Two of our project," he chuckles. "But when you're ready," he adds in a serious tone that makes the subject want to stand up taller and take note, "when the world sees you and realizes what you're capable of—then who knows? Our accomplishments in this facility—_your_ accomplishments—will almost assuredly result in new projects, new scientific directions. We can expand our work here, ushering in entire paradigms of thought on genetic and cybernetic modification!" Clearly, the White Coat is in his element: the old man beams as he relays his dreams of the future with an almost religious fervor.

_820, 821, 822..._

"Just think of the possibilities, young one!" he continues, more and more animatedly. "Think of what we'll achieve together—"

_823, 824, 825..._

"The new generations of specimens that will be born here, that will learn and grow and be transformed, just like you were!" His enthusiasm is infectious. So infectious that, despite all the horrors that the young subject has suffered at the hands of the White Coats, he almost lets himself be swept along by the scientist's words. _Almost._

"Eight twenty-six." The subject comes to a stop.

"Hmm, what's that, now?" the White Coat asks, sounding mildly annoyed at the interruption.

"This says 'eight twenty-six'," he says quietly, reading the faded label. "This must have been my chamber."

"Ah, so it was." The White Coat straightens his glasses and leans in for a closer look. "Subject 826. Yes, this is where it all began for us, young one."

The subject runs a paw along the glass. He's not sure what he had expected to see, but it certainly wasn't this: one of the glass walls is completely shattered, and further inspection of the chamber reveals blackened, damaged cables connecting it to the main power supply. Confused, he looks to the surrounding cases to see if they are in a similar state, but his is the only one so severely damaged.

"I don't get it," he says. "What happened here—can you tell me?"

"I'll do you one better," says the White Coat. "I'll show you the footage if you want." He ambles over to the central console and lowers himself into a chair with a grateful huff. The subject scrambles up on the chair next to him, standing on the seat cushion so as to see better. With a few practiced motions, the White Coat passes the series of bio-checks and types in a password, pausing only to direct a bemused look at the subject, who is caught sheepishly trying to peek at the keys. He delivers a voice command, and suddenly a virtual screen is projected before them.

The footage is slightly blurry—not the crisp and clean quality the subject is used to receiving from the feed—but the setting is clear enough: it's the Delivery Room. The only light sources in the footage are the small safety lamps delineating the room's perimeter, and the embryonic chambers themselves, which are illuminated from within. The chambers cast a pale blue light that is refracted through the amniotic fluid, creating hypnotic patterns: the light dances across the walls and equipment in ever-moving strands. The effect would have been oddly soothing, were it not for the contents of the chambers.

Most of them hold deformed, bulbous monstrosities. Some of the creatures are limbless. Others have giant skulls, swollen far beyond any question of natural proportion. Other creatures have no discernible form at all, yet still manage to pulse with life, as if the chambers have forced it upon them. The sight makes him want to retch.

"What happened to them?" He points to the misshapen forms, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Genetic modification is still a relatively young science," the White Coat says defensively. His glasses reflect the blue light from the screen, obscuring his eyes. "The engineering process is, by definition, a risk—there's no guarantee that the resulting specimen will be a healthy one. Given the uncertainty, it's only natural to observe a substantial percentage of, ah... deformed specimens."

The subject clenches his teeth. There is _nothing_ natural about the miserable creatures before him. And all the scientist's pretty words—with their promise of a grander purpose and a chance to shape the future—can't change the fact that the so-called birthplace they are standing in is really a graveyard.

That's what he _wants_ to say. But by now, he knows better than to confront a White Coat. So instead he asks quietly, "Were they in pain?"

"No," the man is quick to answer. Then, after a moment, perhaps more honestly—"I don't know. I hope not." He presses a button on the console, and the footage fast-forwards. The white text at the corner of the screen now reads: '_7003, Mendrix-Ondar-28_'. The subject's birthday.

On screen, a few White Coats come and go, to monitor the chambers and take perfunctory notes: the scene is perfectly ordinary, other than the monstrosities within the chambers. But then the door slams open, and into the room rush three figures—dressed not in white coats, but in black form-fitting clothing and masks. Clearly, they are unfamiliar with the wing: upon entering the room, they hesitate, heading to the central console only after taking confused stock of their surroundings. One of them places a small circular device beside the computer and activates it. A couple of quick keystrokes later, and the computer responds.

"A decryption unit," the scientist explains. "Simple stuff, really. This was before the bio-checks—our facility was considerably less secure back then. We weren't prepared to deal with sabotage."

As if on cue, a sharp sound blasts from the footage. On screen, one of the chambers is smoking and spitting sparks, and fluid leaks onto the floor through a newly blown crack in the glass.

"As with every great scientific movement," says the White Coat, speaking over the footage, "there were nay-sayers. Backward-thinking, fear mongering dissidents," he spits. The sudden vehemence, though not directed at the subject, still makes him cringe. "We caught them almost immediately," the White Coat continues, "but not before the damage was done. The leading theory is that they were trying to generate a massive power surge, to disable all the chambers at once, but they only succeeded in shorting one."

"Mine," the subject says, tearing his eyes away from the images to look at the scientist.

"Yours," he confirms. He presses a button on the console to let the rest of the footage play at normal speed.

They watch in silence for a few moments as the dark figures flit across the screen. The intruders appear increasingly agitated, as their efforts to destroy the remaining chambers ultimately fail. After no more than a few minutes, the authorities arrive on-site. Securing the room quickly and efficiently, they place the perpetrators under arrest. A small team of White Coats is then allowed to enter, and they swarm what's left of the broken chamber, working frantically to save the fetus inside. Working to save _him_.

_"Do we have confirmation of a heartbeat?"_ one of the White Coats on the screen asks, her words slightly distorted by the recording.

_"Power's out,"_ someone replies tersely. _"We don't have confirmation of _anything_ right now. No readings, no nothing—we're flying blind."_

_"No use trying to get the chamber back online—it's damaged beyond repair."_

_"Well, what about the back-up chambers? Dammit, I know we have contingency plans in place for this kind of shit."_

_"No go. All the back-up chambers are currently in use."_

_"Okay, so then what's the protocol?"_

A beat of silence, then_—"I... I think we have to extract him."_

The team breaks into a chorus of _"Well, shit,"_ and _"This is insane,"_ and _"It's too early to induce delivery."_

_"Keep it together,"_ barks the leader_—_and despite the grainy footage, the subject now recognizes the voice and glasses of the oldest White Coat. _"We'll have to break what's left of the glass and pull the fetus out. There's no time to drain the amniotic fluid slowly."_

The team appears to rally behind the simple instruction.

_"I'm on it."_

_"I'll prep a sterile chamber."_

_"Get a defibrillator, too."_

_"On it."_

"Ironically enough," says the White Coat, speaking over the footage, "you were the only specimen that made it to Phase Two. Some of my colleagues have posited that it was precisely _because_ of the sabotage that your cognitive modifications were such a success. Personally, I have my reservations about their theory, but I'll admit it does have a certain poetry."

They continue to watch the footage. The White Coats crowd frenetically around the almost impossibly tiny frame on the crash cart. A few minutes pass, in which the scientists' focused silence is interrupted only by occasional commands and curses. They carefully work an intubation tube down the throat of the still, pale creature, and they attempt to restart his heart twice before finally succeeding. But in time, their work is rewarded. The young creature starts to wriggle, pawing weakly at the intubation tube, and the rhythmic blip of the surrounding machinery indicates a steady heartbeat. The scientists crumple in visible relief as they continue their work. They place him in the sterile chamber, stabilizing him. Their touch is surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. As the subject watches the footage, he wonders what he ever did to stop deserving that tenderness.

The security footage cuts out abruptly, signifying the end of the day, and the screen disappears. For a moment, the pair sits in silence, letting their eyes adjust once more to the change in light.

"I _shouldn't_ have made it," the subject realizes out loud. "I was too young—I should have died right there on that table."

"Yes," the White Coat says quietly. "The odds were against you. But you made it, young one," he smiles kindly. "And I'm so glad you did."

The subject wishes that he could say the same.

* * *

It's a quiet walk as they retrace their steps from his birthplace back to the main laboratory. It's the night shift, and most of the other White Coats have already gone home. The subject is subdued, no longer scampering ahead of the old man, but keeping an even pace with him. There's something bothering him—a question burning in the back of his mind, put there by the realization of how fragile his life is—but the shared silence has gone on for too long, and he's not really sure how to address the old White Coat, to get his attention.

He eventually settles on 'sir'—a traditional Terran word indicating respect—and asks for his name.

"You can call me Zeph," the old man replies with a smile.

"Okay, Zeph," he says, trying it out. "I have a question, but it might be an awkward one. The feed is good for a lot of things—but it's a little fuzzy on things like social cues."

The old man chuckles. "Never hesitate to ask a question, young one. Especially at your stage of development. Ask away, and beg for forgiveness later, if necessary."

The subject cracks a smile. "Okay, well then— How old are you?"

"Ah. I think that is a very appropriate question, under the circumstances. I am seventy-eight years old, by the Prime-standard."

"That's a very long time, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, and I plan to live longer still! Statistically speaking, I will probably die within the next ten to twenty years, allowing for moderate medical advancements," he explains casually. "But by then, I hope to have accomplished all that I envision for myself. Or at the very least, I'll damn well die trying, and leave a modest scientific legacy for younger, brighter minds to build upon," he chuckles. He goes on to talk about how current medical advancements _could, _theoretically, extend his life for an additional three or four decades, but that the trials conducted for his species had been shoddy at best, and therefore, the data was insufficient to justify the procedures—

The subject nods, tuning him out slightly, because the question is still burning in his mind. So, before he can think better of it, he blurts it out:

"Zeph, what can you tell me about _my_ lifespan?" _There it is. Out in the open._

At first the White Coat is quiet, face impassive. Then he starts to ramble. "Ah, your lifespan. Ah, I suppose I would ask, how do you mean?" he says. "If you're asking about the different stages of life among Terran mammals, well first of all there is, ah, gestation, which of course you've already been through, followed by—"

"Come on, Zeph," the subject interrupts again, but not unkindly. "I'd be a pretty shitty excuse for your _magnum opus_ if I didn't know the difference between a life _cycle_ and a life_span_ by now. I'm not asking about gestation or larval stages or frickin' caterpillars and butterflies," he attempts a smile, but doesn't quite manage it. "You know exactly what I'm asking."

The White Coat still doesn't answer, so the young creature prompts him again. He needs to know.

"Zeph," he says quietly. "How long do I have to live?"

"Ah, well, based on our research and what we know of Terran biology..."

Tellingly, the scientist resorts once more to rambling. Heart sinking, the subject knows to steel himself for the worst.

"... And of course there are such things as statistical anomalies, and so, ah, we have to take that into account when talking about characteristically unpredictable things like lifespans—"

"Please." _Just tell me._ "How long."

The scientist slowly comes to a halt in the middle of the hallway. The subject mirrors him, waiting.

"I never thought we would be having this conversation so soon. You're still so young," Zeph says wearily, appearing to have aged a decade within the span of a minute. He sinks to his haunches, seating himself against the wall with a heavy sigh.

The subject does the same, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his manacled hands around them.

"Based on what we know of your biology, and our studies on similar Terran mammals..." Zeph stares directly ahead, avoiding the young creature's eyes. "We estimate that you will live two to three years."

"Two to three more years?" the subject asks, somehow keeping his voice steady.

Zeph shakes his head. "Two to three total."

"Oh."_  
_

He feels as if he is in one of the embryonic chambers—moving sluggishly through the fluid, senses dampened. He vaguely registers the fact that Zeph is talking to him, clumsily trying to lend comfort. Trying to point out that the research may have been incorrect. Trying to make a rational point about statistical anomalies.

But right now, he can't absorb the comfort, and he doesn't want to think about the statistics.

"And with medical advancements over the next few years, who knows!" the old man is saying. "We live in the age of miracles, after all!" But his smile is forced, and his eyes are desperate.

"You're a scientist, Zeph," the subject says. "You don't believe in miracles. And neither do I." He brings himself to his feet. Slowly makes his way down the hall, forces one foot in front of the other, until the underwater sensation has gone. All he wants now is to be left alone.

The old man, sensing this, follows him at a distance back to the main laboratory. He removes the restraints, opens his cage door for him, and quietly turns to leave. But before switching off the lights, he turns to the subject one more time.

"I'm sorry," he says.

The words are so stupidly inadequate that the subject almost laughs.

Instead, he turns away to face the corner of his cage. He curls into himself, eyes shut tightly, listening to the _click_ of the lights and the _snap_ of the locks engaging. He listens as the slow footsteps of the White Coat fade away. Then he realizes: the man has forgotten to turn the feed back on. The one night he would have welcomed the noise—the distraction—and instead, there's nothing. Nothing but the dark, and his thoughts. _That_, of all things, finally puts him over the edge.

The sobs tear their way out of his chest, racking his body. Alone in the dark, with thoughts of mortality looming over him, he cries himself to sleep. The sobs eventually turn to shudders, the shudders turn to a dull ache in his chest, and the dull ache in his chest stays with him as he navigates troubled dreamscapes filled with ghosts of the misshapen unborn, trapped under glass.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

**So, I have some mixed feelings about this chapter. On the one hand, I think the story needed an entry like this, to further illustrate the dynamic between Rocket and the White Coats, and to reveal more about Rocket's origins. On the other hand, this second installment probably isn't as gripping as the first one (since the first chapter was all "Whump! Wham! Carnage! Weird formatting!" and this chapter is more your standard fare of "Narrative. Narrative. Guess-what-oh-yup-more-narrative").**

**And there's still no sign of the other Guardians, dammit! I know you were promised a Groot appearance, and this chapter is very conspicuously Groot-less. But I promise that by Chapter 5 at the latest, everyone's favorite sentient houseplant will definitely make an appearance. (Almost definitely. Probably. Maybe. Unless, of course, I end up reworking my current plot line—so, on second thought I can promise nothing.) Bless you all for bearing with me, and as always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	3. Pieces

**I Didn't Ask to Get Made**

**Chapter 3: Pieces**

* * *

_"You just wanna suck the joy out of everything."_

* * *

He will remember the months to come as one of the darkest points in his life. Depression hits, and it hits hard.

_"Depression: severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy"_—a definition from one of the data-segments on psychology. But it's one thing to know what the condition is, in a strictly clinical sense—it's another matter entirely to experience it firsthand.

He finds out, in no uncertain terms, how depression works: how it plays havoc with the part of your mind that lets you experience anything _good_ in life. It takes the mechanisms that enable you to experience _joy_, and _light_, and _happiness_, smashes those mechanisms into pieces, and dances on the pieces for good measure. As a result, you are left fundamentally, physiologically broken, in a fog of apathy and misery that proves impossible to 'snap out' of, no matter how often or how creatively well-meaning bystanders may entreat you to do so.

He hears all the different entreaties, in time. Mostly from Zeph, but also from the other White Coats. The others are sympathetic at first, but they quickly grow impatient, not understanding why he can't just:

"...focus on the project. I know it's been hard for you, but your cognitive assessments are on the decline lately—they're not reflecting what you're truly capable of."

"...think of how important you are, young one. No matter how long or short your life—although I would still hold out hope for medical advancements!—you will leave behind an incredible legacy in the fields of genetic and cybernetic modification."

"...eat something, please. Your numbers are down—it's not healthy."

"...realize how good you have it. We've given you sentience, and here you are, wasting it. Sleeping all day, tuning out the audio-visual feed, throwing the assessments... If you fail to demonstrate at least a level-eight intelligence by the end of the year, it will look like you've regressed. You'll hurt our facility's chances of future funding, and we _can't_ have that."

"...remember how much you used to love the data-segments on astronomy, or mechanics, or the different cultures? You used to ask for new content every day, almost more than we could keep up with. You just have to dig deep and find that enthusiasm again."

"...accept the sadness. Acknowledge that it's a part of you, but then realize that you need to move on."

"...realize that you're not the only one: billions of individuals throughout the systems die before their time. It's a sad and terrible reality, but it happens to us all. You just need to—"

"...apply yourself."

"...talk to me, young one."

"...wake up."

"...eat."

"—make the most of the time you have left."

He acknowledges the commands and even agrees with some of the advice, but finds himself physically incapable of acting on any of it. They might just as well be asking him to reach up and pluck a moon from its orbit. Because the choices and attitudes they are asking of him are the products of a healthy mind, whereas the pieces of _his_ mind are lying broken on the floor.

At first, there is talk of medication. But, for obvious reasons, none of the known treatments for depression have ever been tested in his species, and so the White Coats are hopelessly out of their depth. They are unsure of how the medicines will affect him, and what's more, they fear that unknown interactions with his cognitive modifications could somehow reverse his intellectual progress. So in the end, their chosen course of action is to take no action at all: to carry on with their standard procedures and hope that in time, the situation resolves itself. Whatever else may happen, they are unwilling to risk their work being undone.

Zeph, bless his heart, is the one person who keeps trying. Long after his colleagues' sympathies have waned, the oldest White Coat reaches out to the subject with small gestures that he hopes will help inspire, encourage, and motivate. The gestures are fundamentally misguided, of course, in that they are aimed at the symptoms and not the underlying problems, but at least they are well-meant. The subject finds the situation oddly touching.

During the dark months, the old White Coat gives him five things: A new room. A book. A box of mechanical parts. A name. And finally, something very unexpected.

The room is the first gift when, one day, the White Coat informs him that he is being moved to new quarters within the facility. Meekly, the subject lets himself be led the short distance down the hallway. He is largely indifferent to the idea of a transfer and keeps falling behind the old man, failing to keep pace. But upon arriving, he finds that the room actually _is_ an honest-to-goodness room. Not just a cage surrounded by empty, identical cages and the angular shapes of laboratory equipment, but a living compartment with an actual bed, a table and chair that can function as a workspace, and a bathroom with a shower. Perhaps it's a telling detail that they haven't trusted him with a tub.

There are no windows, of course, and no exits other than the bio-locked door that leads to the rest of the facility. The furniture is all bolted down, too, but all of that is to be expected. The space is plain and small, but it's his, and it's a vast improvement on anything that he's ever had before.

He wishes he were capable of appreciating it more. "Thanks," he tells Zeph. "This... is nice."

Zeph looks a bit disappointed—probably hoping for more a reaction—but he recovers quickly. "You're most welcome," he says. Then, earnestly—"I hope it helps."

But after the old scientist leaves, the subject doesn't explore the room any further, or take advantage of the additional space. He doesn't sit at the table to look at the data-pad waiting for him there, or turn on the shower and stand under the spray. Instead, he does the only thing that he has been capable of doing lately: he lies on the bed and curls into a ball, just like he would have done had he still been in the cage.

* * *

The old scientist watches from the vantage point of the security camera, and sighs.

* * *

The book comes next. It's a thick, glossy atlas almost as tall as he is, with pristine images and neat text describing all the known worlds and systems.

It's the first book he's ever seen in person—thus far his instruction has been delivered through the feed or through an occasional data-pad, for when the White Coats require him to calculate or diagram. When Zeph fills him in, with a chuckle, on how pages are supposed to work, the subject flips through the atlas, quickly absorbing the information. He already knows most of the content, so the book is redundant as a teaching tool. Not to mention, it's a relatively expensive, resource-inefficient method of delivering information.

Still, there's something about it—something surprisingly pleasant about the paper and ink, and the solid surface that he can reach out and touch. Here, the printed images and words capture his attention effortlessly, whereas with the feed, he's been struggling to focus.

The atlas would have been a perfect gift, if not for the missing pages towards the back of the book. When the subject asks about the damage, Zeph immediately looks uncomfortable.

"Ah... that's the section that corresponds to this facility," he explains. The subject gives him a questioning look, so he continues. "Some of my colleagues didn't feel comfortable letting you see those pages, for, ah... security reasons."

The subject laughs—a dry, joyless sound. "Zeph, I'm as stuck here as I'm ever going to be. If I _did_ know the name of the planet we're on, how exactly do they figure that would change anything?" He fingers the torn edges of the missing pages. "Thanks, though," he adds sincerely. "This is actually really nice."

After Zeph leaves, the subject closes the book. He honestly doesn't feel the need to read it again, or to leave it open.

* * *

Still, when the old scientist checks the security footage later on, he sees that the subject has brought the atlas up onto the bed—the closed book provides a reassuring weight beside him, as he curls up to sleep once more.

* * *

The third thing Zeph brings him is a box full of mechanical parts—nothing too heavy or too sharp, that could plausibly be turned into a weapon—but little odds and ends that the scientist hopes will prompt the listless animal to tinker.

"I know you used to love the data-segments on mechanics and engineering," Zeph explains, slightly red and out of breath from the exertion of carrying the box, as he sets it in the middle of the subject's room. "So I brought you these old pieces of equipment, in case you wanted to take them apart or build something simple. Working with your hands can be very therapeutic," he suggests hopefully. "Your use of the tools would have to be supervised—I'll take them with me when I leave today—but I can come back as often as you'd like."

"Oh. Okay, thanks," says the subject, mustering up as much enthusiasm as he can. Which, sadly, isn't much. "Maybe not right now, though... I'm... having an off-day," he explains lamely.

"Ah. All right then, whenever you're up to it," Zeph says, and he sounds so crestfallen that the subject sighs and calls him back.

"Wait," he says. "Maybe not today, but tomorrow?"

The old man beams. "Tomorrow, then."

The subject does his best to return the smile.

* * *

The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but still, progress is progress, and the old scientist will take whatever he can get.

* * *

The fourth thing Zeph gives the subject is not a mechanical component, or a book, or anything tangible at all. Instead, he gives him a name.

"How does 'Ahr-Ket' sound to you?" the old scientist asks. They are seated at the workspace in the subject's room—Zeph is typing on a data-pad, and the subject is in the process of pulling apart an old transistor and putting it back together, in between bites of a meal the White Coat has brought him.

"Ahr-Ket," the subject repeats, trying it out. "Sounds Zehlaarbian."

"It is," says Zeph, pleased that he's recognized the language. "My mother's native tongue. _Ahr-Ket_ means 'first of many' and is the name of the archetypal genesis figure in Zehlaarbian culture." Ever ready with a lecture—not that the subject really minds—Zeph launches into a list of equivalent figures in other cultures: Am'net in Xandarian culture, Adam in Terran culture, and so forth. "I thought it only fitting to name you after them," he concludes.

"A genesis figure, huh?" The subject doesn't mention the fact that, technically, that would make Zeph and the White Coats the deities. Instead, after a moment of thought, he accepts the name, and smiles. "Thanks, Zeph," he says. "It would be nice to go by a name, instead of a number."

It doesn't change much, honestly. But he can at least appreciate the fact that he won't die nameless.

* * *

Later on, it dawns on the old scientist: that was the first real smile he's seen from the subject—from _Ahr-Ket_—in months.

* * *

Not only does the final gift come as a complete surprise to him, but it is also completely unintentional on the part of the giver.

It happens one night when he is lying in bed, letting the sounds and images of the feed drift over him. The current data-segment is describing types of devices used to bypass bio-locks. Given the circumstances, he is somewhat amused by the topic: it's ironic that his captors would be arming him with information on lock decryption and decoding. But they know, just as well as he does, that without the proper equipment, the knowledge is useless to him—he would never be able to put it into practice, given that his environment is so intensely controlled. He watches as the feed goes on to describe the various components of an advanced decryption unit. An image and a few lines of corresponding text are provided for each piece: a residual processor, a CAP-X port, a power supply—

His concentration is broken by the sound of two White Coats approaching. They are not headed for his room—they are simply passing by—but he can hear bits of their conversation. And he swears that one of them just said the words "_Subject X"_.

He snaps to attention. _What the actual hell. Subject X... _There was another subject in the facility?

"Hey, come back!" he yells, scrambling out of bed. He pounds on the door with his fist, while his heart pounds in his chest. "Hey, out there, what's this about a Subject _X_?"

The footsteps pause, and he hears whispers of the men conferring with each other.

"Come on, I know you heard me," he says, ear against the door. "You may as well open up—I'm gonna find out sooner or later."

After another few moments, the door unlocks. The subject compliantly takes a few steps backward, paws open and in plain sight, which is the protocol now that he's been transferred to this new room.

The White Coats open the door and stand in the entrance.

"We can't tell you anything about Subject _X_," one of them says. "We've been instructed not to."

"Instructed? By who?" he demands.

"By Dr. Zeph," the other White Coat replies. "All we can tell you is that there _is_ in fact another subject and, quote, 'not to worry'."

"What? But that doesn't make any sense. I have so many questions—"

The first White Coat holds up a hand, cutting him off. "Sorry. Our hands are tied. Just focus on the audio-visual feed. You have another assessment coming up in the morning."

With that, the two scientists move on—they have business to attend to—leaving Ahr-Ket alone with his thoughts.

So then, there was another subject in the facility. Another creature for the White Coats to rip open and play God with. If he had to guess, judging from the different nomenclature, Subject _X_ had likely been acquired—_captured?_—from outside the laboratory. If it had been genetically modified and grown within one of the embryonic chambers, then it would have been assigned a number like he had, instead of a letter.

He had so many questions. Why was Subject _X_ here, why now, and why the mandated secrecy surrounding it? Why had Zeph, in particular, forbidden him from knowing anything about it?

Was the subject simply an animal at this stage, or was it More? What species was it—was it anything like him? And most importantly—

What were they doing to it now?

Memories wash over him, of sharp things and dead-unseeing eyes and waking horrors and _no-no-please_. He finds that he is clenching his paws into fists, so tightly that the nails are on the verge of drawing blood.

He wishes that there was something he could do. To help, to console, to prevent this new subject from having to suffer what he had suffered. But he is no more able to save them than he had been able to save himself. And right now, he just wants to sleep. Wearily, he turns away from the door to walk back to the bed—

And walks right into the box of mechanical components that Zeph had given him. The box overturns, contents scattering across the floor. He's not bothered by the mess—it can wait until morning. Maybe not even then.

But one of the pieces catches his eye. He had nearly stepped on it, but has stopped himself in time. _Why did it look so familiar... _

_Oh._ It was a residual processor. The key component of an advanced decryption unit, as shown in the data-segment. It was actually a fairly valuable piece of equipment—Zeph must not have bothered to sift through the contents of the box completely, or else he simply hadn't recognized the processor for what it was. It's a flat, circular device, notably nondescript except for the characteristic pattern of grooves across its surface. But he's good with patterns. _He's getting halfway decent at building things, too... _

A thought comes to him, unbidden. He tips his head, considering the processor. It's a little scuffed, but otherwise intact.

He kneels slowly, as if the piece is a winged creature that might be frightened away, and picks it up. And as he turns it gently in his paws, something unexpected happens.

The old scientist, without meaning to, has given him a final gift— _An idea. _And oh, what an idea. It solidifies itself in his mind, refusing to go away, and as the pieces fall into place, he does something categorically insane. He dares to let himself hope again.

A sharp laugh bursts out of him. Then another. He lets the release happen, laughing and weeping as he rocks in place, clutching the processor to his chest.

With a _lightness_ that his young heart hasn't felt in months, he carefully puts the processor aside and starts to gather the rest of the scattered mechanical components. With trembling hands and a mind suddenly racing with ideas—God, he'd almost forgotten what that _feels_ like—he sorts through the pieces on the floor. He plans, he assesses, and thank all the deities above that he can finally_ move_ again. Because he has work to do.

* * *

Elsewhere in the facility, the oldest White Coat is also working. Behind his glasses, his eyes burn with an almost feverish brightness. He stands over a well-lit table bearing what appear to be organized rows of tree branches. The branches range in thickness and length, from twig-like sticks to pieces almost as tall as the scientist, and they are neatly labeled _"Excised from shoulder"_ and _"Excised from torso"_, and so on. The scientist reaches for a nearby data-pad and presses a few buttons in quick succession. Continuing to examine the branches, he speaks into the data-pad, recording an audio file:

"Entry 411. 7004, Calys-Ondar-17, Prime-standard date.

"Dr. Audreas Zeph recording.

"Recently, our facility has had the good fortune of acquiring a peculiar specimen of biological interest. The species, _Flora colossus_, is exceedingly rare, and is known to possess incredible properties of resilience and regeneration. _Flora colossus_ is also known to be highly dangerous—however, we have taken extreme precautions towards containment, including use of a cryo-chamber, prolonged dehydration, and an environment completely devoid of visible light—our team has been working under infrared only. These precautions have rendered the specimen docile, allowing us to collect valuable data. Height, weight, and density measurements to be uploaded, along with..."

_Thump._

"...along with manipulable models. As supported in the literature, the specimen—which we have dubbed 'Subject _X_'—is highly resilient."

_Thump. Thump. _The background noise grows louder, so the scientist raises his voice, trying to speak over it.

"Thus far, we have successfully removed entire limbs and even parts of the 'torso', for lack of a better analogue, without observing any permanent damage. Regrowth of excised tissues..."

_Thump. Thump. _The old scientist frowns, frustrated. "Pause," he tells the data-pad. He then presses a button on his comm-unit. "Dr. Veydra, I trust you have everything under control?" he asks mildly. "Or do you and your team require assistance?"

"No, sir. Apologies for the noise—I know you're trying to record," comes the reply, somewhat muffled by static. "The subject is... _agitated_ by one of the excisions near its core, but we have it well in hand. We're dropping the cryo-chamber temperature by another ten degrees, and we'll have the new samples brought up to you shortly."

"That's quite all right, then," the old scientist says. "Excellent work, my dear—carry on." He ends the conversation with his subordinate and commands the data-pad to resume recording.

"The excised tissues typically regrow within a span of one to two hours, depending on the severity of the damage sustained. And even in its weakened state, Subject _X_ appears to have a very high tolerance for pain. Additional data to follow."

_Thump. Thump. _Amid the noise, there is now muffled shouting as well.

"However, there appears to be a sensitive bundle of fibrous tissues at the base of the 'neck', that, when tampered with, triggers an extreme reaction: pain, agitation, and temporary withering of the extremities."

The shouts grow louder—the unmistakable sound of a creature in excruciating pain. The scientist looks somewhat disturbed, but continues to record.

"There, ah, is no mention of this fibrous bundle in any of the currently existing scientific literature on _Flora colossus_—therefore, we appear to be charting new territory. We have termed our discovery the _"core"_ of the organism, and posit that this "core" may be the primary structure responsible for regeneration in _Flora colossus_."

The shouts are now loud enough that the words can be made out, even from several rooms away.

"If we could tap into the possibilities of the core... If we could determine the mechanisms behind its regenerative properties... then who knows what we could accomplish."

_Thump. Thump. _And piercing through the noise, drowning out the remainder of the recording, come the agonized cries:

"I... am Groot!"

"I am Groot!"

* * *

**_Author's Notes: _**

**Depression is a heavy subject. Chances are, some of you are experiencing it now, or have experienced it in the recent past... I know I have. So, if anything in the first part of this chapter resonates with you, just know that you're not alone, and that help is always nearby.**

* * *

**Also, don't worry— we will eventually get our hero to the correct name of 'Rocket'! (It just didn't seem like the kind of name the scientists would choose for him initially, given that they've got kind of a God complex thing going on. 'Rocket' is more what you'd name a family dog. Not an intelligent, sentient being that you've essentially tortured into existence. At least that's my take on it.) As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	4. Surface

**I Didn't Ask to Get Made**

**Chapter 4: Surface**

* * *

_"I have a plan."_

* * *

Dr. Veydra frowns at her screen. A cup of coffee sits cold and unfinished at her left hand, while a pen drums impatiently in her right.

"Again—same time point," she tells the computer. After a brief pause, the footage on the screen replays for what seems like the hundredth time. In reality, it's only the twenty-second—not that she meant to keep count, but it's fascinating, the things that float just beneath the level of your awareness. Numbers, patterns, anomalies: telling details tend to pool within the subconscious mind and can easily be brought to the surface, given time and training.

Lately, she has noticed more than a few troubling details about eight-two-six.

_Detail one. The subject's rekindled interest in the audio-visual feed._ After having practically ignored the feed for the past few months, eight-two-six is now requesting clips left and right—mostly to do with mechanics, or chemistry, or electronics. It's a relief to see him so mentally active again—his assessments have improved drastically—but she can't help but wonder _why._ Why the sudden change?

_Detail two. The subject's obsession with the 'tinkering box' Zeph gave him._ Admittedly, the subject has always shown an affinity for mechanics and engineering, so the obsession in and of itself is not so surprising. What _is_ surprising is that the obsession is new, but the box is old. Eight-two-six had that box in his possession for nearly a month before showing any real interest in it, outside of some dutiful tinkering in Zeph's presence. The box had been put aside and neglected for weeks, and now out of the blue, eight-two-six was spending his every spare moment poking around in it? Again, _why?_

Initially, Veydra had seen the box as an overindulgence, and had not hesitated to share that opinion with her supervisor. But she eventually conceded that a few metal trinkets and playthings were acceptable, so long as they couldn't possibly be crafted into anything dangerous. She's now beginning to wish she had stood her ground.

Eight-two-six is up to something—she just isn't sure what, yet. Hence her investigation into the security footage.

Normally, the footage sits untouched, except for randomly chosen clips that the interns watch for security purposes. Given the volume of material to sift through, it's taken her a few nights to find anything relevant, even watching at double or triple speed. Now that this clip is finally in front of her, though, she can't tear her eyes from it. It's a fairly straightforward scene, but she senses that there's more to it than what's on the surface. That there are hidden details on the brink of revealing themselves, if she just gives them the time and space to come to light.

She lets the clip play all the way through.

It was taken from the subject's holding room three nights prior. In the clip, eight-two-six clumsily walks into his tinkering box, spilling its contents across the floor. He then freezes, apparently contemplating the scattered pieces. Unfortunately, his back is to the camera—not an ideal angle, since his face and paws are obscured. Still, Veydra can at least make out the basics of what happens next: the subject has what appears to be a nervous breakdown. He slowly crumples in on himself, and his knees hit the cell floor. He starts to laugh and then sob uncontrollably, a sound that Veydra finds jarring. Whenever eight-two-six opens his mouth to speak, she still half-expects to hear his old repertoire of animal clicks and chatters. Not this perfectly _cephoid _voice, that can laugh and cry _(like hers)_.

She takes a sip of coffee and grimaces at its now-tepid state, without looking away from her computer.

On the screen, eight-two-six eventually calms. Or more accurately, his hysteria subsides, because eight-two-six doesn't actually 'calm'_—_instead, he launches himself into action. He races around the room to gather the spilled pieces from the tinkering box, examining and then sorting each one. His back is no longer to the camera—even with the slightly grainy footage, Veydra finally has a clear view of his face. And she can tell that something in his expression has changed. Eight-two-six is awake, alert... almost manically energetic.

Which is what makes the next part of the footage so suspicious—

But a tremor starts in her right hand. Frightening in its familiarity, it interrupts her focus. _No, **no,** not again._ The tremor is barely perceptible—it could easily go unnoticed by an outside observer—but it's there. Gritting her teeth, Veydra concentrates on the movement, struggling to counter it. Slowly, she re-establishes a steady _tap-tap_ of the pen in her hand, like she's practiced. Back in control, she releases a shaky breath.

She wishes she could simply attribute the tremor to stress, or to a nervous tic, or even to the copious amounts of caffeine she's been consuming lately—in fact, back when the tremors began, that's exactly what she convinced herself was happening—but by now, she knows better. She's a scientist, after all, an observer. She's fully aware of her genetic history, and of the all-too familiar pattern of deterioration. _(It starts with shaking hands, then behavioral changes, and then...) _But she tries not to think about the _'and then'_.

She forces her attention back to the screen in front of her. "Skip back one minute, then play," she says firmly. The screen dutifully complies.

She focuses on the image of the subject. She rewatches the hysteria, then the manic intensity, then_— There._ The part that she finds so suspicious.

_Detail three. The subject notices the security cameras, tries to _hide _the fact he's noticed them, and doesn't quite succeed._

At that point in the footage, the subject has gathered most of the mechanical components and arranged them in concentric circles. He sits at the center of the array, positioned so that his right profile is in view. Most of the mechanical pieces on the floor are in plain view of the camera, as well, except for a handful of pieces directly to the subject's left. Leaning forward, the subject grabs a mass of wires. He turns them in his hands, untangling them, checking for breakages. He then turns to his right, to reach for something behind him_— _And freezes.

Eight-two-six looks briefly to his right, then snaps his head back: a quick, shallow movement, almost like a twitch. And it may be a trick of the light, or it may be nothing at all, but it almost looks to Veydra as if eight-two-six remembers the security camera, instinctively starts to turn toward it, then catches himself.

After a moment, he relaxes again, settling into a casual posture.

Almost too casual... artfully casual? Deceptively casual?

After a minute or two of listless tinkering—nothing close to the energy he had shown just moments ago—eight-two-six stretches, yawns, and slides his paws into his pockets. He then heads to bed, stepping carefully around the mess on the floor. He cuts out the lights, although the camera still provides infrared vision of his small form. He curls under the covers, tossing and turning lightly in his sleep. Which is odd, because— _Detail four. The subject typically sleeps like an overfed globnark in hibernation. And he rarely, if ever, uses the covers. _Ergo, he was hiding something.

Then again, she has to consider the possibility that her suspicions are based on nothing more than paranoia. What if she were misinterpreting the situation entirely, reading nonexistent details into a perfectly innocent scene? After all, being a scientist means striving for objectivity in everything, self-assessment included. If, as a mental exercise, she were to force herself to assume the perspective of an outside observer—neither scientist nor subject—then she would probably take one look at the harried, sleep-deprived _(maybe mentally ill)_ scientist sitting in front of a computer screen, alone in the dark long after normal work hours, and put her odds of paranoia at roughly... eighty percent. Meanwhile, the odds of the forlorn little subject concocting some grandiose, yet-to-be-determined scheme? Twenty percent at best—if she was being _truly_ objective, then probably more like twelve. Knowing Zeph, he would have even made an argument for five percent or lower, but then again, ARC's lead scientist is far too trusting for his own good. Sometimes it baffles her, how such a gentle person came to pursue this line of work.

When Veydra signed on to the ARC Project as its second-lead investigator, she did so with the unspoken understanding that she would take charge of the more sordid aspects of the project—aspects that Zeph wished to distance himself from.

She and her assigned team performed vivisections. Zeph and his team monitored life signs.

She and her team identified the specimens that suited their purposes, and terminated the ones that did not. Zeph and his team saw to the development and delivery of the survivors.

She conducted conditioning sessions to increase subject compliance and provide negative reinforcement when necessary. Zeph always declined to attend, citing studies on the comparative advantages of positive enforcement, but he never actually used his authority as principal investigator to do away with the electric shock procedures.

She took the lead in training a terrified eight-two-six to speak, all but prying the words from his throat so that the project would meet its ridiculously ambitious goals for verbal development. Zeph, during his occasional visits, preferred to do most of the talking himself, which gave the subject the chance to listen and absorb instead of perform, but also forced Veydra to play catch-up the next day.

And now lately, Veydra has been ripping apart Subject _X_, excising tissue samples, prodding at the core, and testing the creature's limits _(while trying to ignore its screams)_. Zeph has been working in the main laboratory, examining the tissue samples on a cellular and molecular level to determine the mechanisms behind _X_'s regenerative abilities.

She takes no pleasure in causing undue pain, but neither does she shy away from what needs to be done. She has learned to accept the blood on her hands. Zeph, meanwhile, is still doing whatever he can to convince himself that his hands are clean—that they aren't dripping with red, like hers. She rationalizes the red. He simply denies its existence.

Not that she resents him for his naivete—she is too fond of him for that, and she appreciates the balance of their working relationship. She will allow him his weaknesses, since he has been more than patient in working around hers: Where she rushes headlong, he reins her in. And where he tiptoes, she strides.

It wasn't until a few months ago that she had come to truly appreciate her supervisor. With the initiation of Phase Two, the Institute had finally begun to tap eight-two-six's cognitive potential, though not quickly enough for Veydra's liking. She had been confident in the numbers, had seen the results indicating a level-eight intelligence, and had wanted to bump up the timetable for running the audio-visual feed at max capacity. Zeph had not shared her confidence.

* * *

"Numbers tell only a part of the story," he had told her mildly, adjusting his glasses. "We also have to consider the psychological well-being of the subject—a factor that can be, ah, difficult to quantify during the pre-verbal stages of development. My advice would be to err on the side of caution."

She frowns. "With all due respect, sir, we've had the feed at eighty percent capacity for over two months now. Eight-two-six has had more than enough time to adjust." He looks skeptical, but she plows ahead. "I believe we could easily push him to a hundred percent," she argues. "We've already blown past all known markers for cognitive progress in genetically modified species, so why not take advantage of the subject's full potential?"

Zeph must have caught the edge of desperation in her voice, because his eyes soften. _Damn him for seeing straight through her._ "Dr. Veydra, I have to ask—why the sudden investment in speeding up the project?" And then the really dreaded question, in an almost infuriatingly gentle voice— "Is this about your mother?"

She says nothing, which of course says everything.

"How is she? Any word?"

She almost makes up a happy lie. But there's always something about Zeph, something about that voice, that makes her want to come clean. "...Her prognosis is poor," she finally manages. "Cranial imaging showed advanced neurodegeneration, indicating progression towards the final stages of disease." The words sound stilted and overly clinical even to her: more like a doctor describing a patient than a daughter distraught over a parent. But if hiding behind words was the only way to keep herself from falling apart in front of her supervisor, then dammit, that's exactly what she was going to do. "If we move to a hundred percent capacity now," she presses on, "we might have publishable results within the next sixth months—we can submit our next grant for the third funding quarter instead of the fourth."

_And then we can push for another wave of testing in lower life forms, followed by voluntary testing in higher life forms, and maybe by then we'll have our shit together, and the cybernetic and cerebral augments will be enough to keep my mother from choking to death on her own fucking spit._

She knows what Zeph will say, what he probably _should_ say. That, at the moment, she doesn't have the emotional wherewithal needed to make an objective decision. That she needs to step outside of herself and think rationally about the hidden consequences of changing the project timetable. That the standard protocols are standard for a reason. That, for consistency's sake, any changes to the timetable would have to apply to _all_ future subjects—not just eight-two-six—regardless of their ability to handle accelerated instruction.

That she can't hang all her hopes for her mother's survival (_and now, maybe her own)_ on this project. It's a conversation they've had before, though not in so many words:

"Think of ARC as an exercise in 'pure' science," he told her once, in response to her question on practical applications. "ARC is intended to push the boundaries of genetic, cybernetic, and cognitive modification—to test what's possible. I have to warn you that the medical applications of this project, specifically with regards to treating neurodegenerative disorders, may, ah, be limited. I say this not to discourage you, but to prepare you for the possibility that you may not get the outcome you're looking for."

Facing her mentor now, Veydra fully expects to hear a similar speech.

But this time, instead of standing in her way, Zeph steps aside. "I want this to be your call," he tells her. "I trust you'll make the right one. You're a brilliant scientist—you don't need a relic like me micromanaging your every step," he chuckles. "I would still caution you to think carefully about this decision—but it's yours to make."

She realizes that her jaw is hanging open. "Zeph, I—" she doesn't know what to say, so she settles on a sincere _thank you._

That same day, she gives the order to the increase the rate of audio-visual input to a hundred percent. The subject whines and scratches at his ears, but Veydra assures herself that it's a typical reaction, and that the subject simply needs time to adjust. Her mind leaps ahead to the next steps. She is thinking about data collection, and analysis plans, and a second cohort of specimens—

When she and team walk in the door the next morning and find the subject self-mutilated. The cochlear implant lies on the cage floor, still crackling with sounds of the feed, while the thirty-thousand-unit retinal implant is completely beyond repair.

Furious with the subject, and even more so with herself, she orders him brought to the conditioning chamber. And, oddly enough, when she bites out the word 'no' and watches eight-two-six writhe and whine under the current, something in her stomach uncoils itself and starts to ease. And maybe there is no pleasure in meting out pain _(at least that's what she tells herself)_, but this is about more than just pain. This is about anger, and _release_, and so she orders the switch thrown again. And again, ignoring the startled glances of her subordinates.

She would have probably thrown it a fourth time, but one of the technicians timidly points out that standard procedure is to apply the shock twice.

"Fine, then get him out of my sight," she barks out, and they quickly comply. She remains in the conditioning chamber as the technicians start to half drag, half carry the limp subject down the hall. The conversation is too faint to hear, but she can easily imagine the whispers: _'what the hell was that'_ and _'I've never seen her snap before'_ and _'we should run some diagnostics on eight-two-six, make sure there's no permanent damage'_.

Thankfully, there isn't—she's already in enough trouble as it is.

In the end, instead of shortening the project by three months, her actions delay it by two. She is almost tempted to call in sick, the day after the incident—she doesn't want to have to face Zeph's disappointment, when she is already so bitterly disappointed in herself. But when she does check in with her supervisor later that day, there are no reprimands, no 'I-told-you-so's, no well-deserved lectures about letting her personal problems obscure her professional judgment. Instead, Zeph acts like nothing ever happened. He launches straight into their morning meeting, handing her a file on an upcoming procedure—vocal surgeries for eight-two-six. He begins to ramble excitedly, like he always does, as if pausing for breath is a minor annoyance rather than a necessity. He reiterates that the subject already possesses the capacity for speech, but lacks the physical means to act on that capacity, and that according to data from the psychology wing, the subject was already thinking in terms of words, not vague associations or impressions, but actual _words_, and wasn't that an incredible achievement!

It really _was_ an incredible achievement. So before she knows it, Veydra is swept up in Zeph's enthusiasm, nodding, smiling, even laughing. The scientists review the files, mapping out what tissues need to be removed or thinned out for the vocal surgeries, what muscles groups need to be strengthened, what clonal tissues will have to be grown, if any. It's a familiar, time-tested rhythm between them, and Veydra is deeply grateful for it.

The closest Zeph comes to mentioning the incident is when their meeting ends and she rises to leave his office, file in hand. "Dr. Veydra," he says sincerely, "if there's ever anything I can do." _I'm here._

She's glad she's already headed out the door. Otherwise, she probably _would_ fall apart in front of her supervisor, after all.

* * *

Ever since then, she has respected and trusted Zeph implicitly, in all matters. Well, all matters except one: his bewildering pretense of pursuing a _friendship_ with subject eight-two-six. An absurd notion, given their line of work. Zeph is far too lenient, far too trusting. Fortunately for him, he has her as a second-in-command: if he can be there for her, then she can be there for him, too.

As she continues to play and replay the footage, she remains convinced of her initial suspicions. Odds and forced perspectives aside, every erratic behavior and every glance points to the same invariable conclusion, and nothing will convince her otherwise:_  
_

Eight-two-six is up to something—and she is determined to find out what.

"Replay."

The tremor in her right hand continues to come and go throughout the night—each time is a struggle to regain control. She notes the increasing frequency, and knows what it means for her, but pushes the thought from her mind.

_(It starts with shaking hands. Then behavioral changes, often including but not limited to obsessive paranoia...)_

"Replay."

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

**So! Another antagonist. Don't worry, I promise we'll get back to our hero's POV soon—for now, though, I thought it would be fun to leave you in a 'villain's' headspace. That way, you won't know exactly what Rocket is up to: you'll have to piece it together as Veydra does. (Mwahaha.)**

* * *

**In case it wasn't clear from the context, _'cephoid'_ is what I'm using as a substitute for the word _'human'_. (E.g. "She always half-expects to hear his old repertoire of animal clicks and chatters. Not this perfectly [human] voice, that can laugh and cry.") I'm often tempted to write the word _'human'_, especially when describing how the other characters perceive Rocket's actions and behaviors (e.g. 'That was surprisingly human of him'), or when describing how the characters appear (e.g. 'The plant-creature, whatever it was, was humanoid'). But I can't actually use _'human'_ or_ 'humanoid'_, since of course the Guardians universe is populated by aliens. Shiny, blue, green, red, cyborg, tattooed aliens, presumably in galaxies far, far away. When I was in Rocket's head, I was able to use the word 'More' to describe his sentience and human qualities, but I highly doubted the scientists would do the same. So, in the absence of a correct word, I just gave up and slapped together a new one—_'cephoid'_. Hope it wasn't too jarring (****I feel like I've cheated on the English language)**.

* * *

**I'm cheating on my usual 'no plugs' rule, too: _gameloverx_ recently drew some fan-art for this story, and I was just so honored that I had to mention it! Check out her Zeph interpretation (which I immediately inducted into my head-canon, by the way) on her tumblr page, under user name _videogamelover99_.**

**And as always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


End file.
